Dragonheart впп-8

by Тодд Маккефри

  “Kelsanth . . .” Fiona repeated, indicating that she was unfamiliar with the name and mortified. “Oh! She’s the other queen here!” “We sleep next to you,” Tannaz informed her, adding, “I’m surprised her snores haven’t kept you awake at night.”

  Fiona shook her head, her hand rising to her mouth to stifle a yawn. “I’ve no trouble sleeping,” she confided. “It’s staying awake . . .”

  “That’s always a problem with a hatchling,” Tannaz agreed passionately. She cocked her head thoughtfully at Fiona. “Though I’d say you’ve got it worse than most.”

  Belatedly, Fiona noticed Tannaz’s hand and reached for it, shook it quickly, and let it go.

  Tannaz frowned at the motion, wondering what had gotten into the girl that she’d gone so cold so quickly. “What?” she demanded hotly. “Is my hand not good enough for a Lady Holder?”

  “No,” Fiona replied, her face crumpling in despair, “It’s just that everyone says I’m lazy.” And she surprised herself by bursting into tears. The tears streamed unchecked down her face, her oily hands hanging limply at her sides as her sobs wracked her body.

  Tannaz didn’t deal well with tears or crying girls — her first tendency was to run away or slap them. But this girl’s behavior was different and Tannaz felt strangely moved by it.

  “Fiona,” she said gently. When the tears continued and the girl’s body started to shake more violently, she tried again. “Fiona.”

  In the end, much against Tannaz’s inclinations, she hugged Fiona close to her, whispering the gentle shushing noises that she’d used only with her own hatchling Turns earlier. Slowly Fiona’s sobs quieted and her tears dried up. Tannaz could measure the girl’s recovery by the hardening of her body and the way she slowly pulled away.

  “I’m sorry,” Fiona said, her eyes cast to the ground. “I don’t know what got into me.”

  “I do,” Tannaz told her gently, surprised at herself. “It’s not just that you’re tired.”

  Fiona looked up at her.

  “You’re afraid you won’t measure up, that we’re all judging you.” Tannaz shook her head, smiling. “And it doesn’t matter.” Fiona’s brows furrowed in puzzlement. “No one can take your dragon away from you.”

  Fiona chewed her lower lip nervously before saying in a quiet voice once more close to tears, “But what if I can’t keep her?” Tannaz gave her a puzzled look and Fiona replied with a wave of her hands to the pail of oil and the sleeping dragon, “What if I don’t have the energy? What if — is it possible that she got the wrong person? I can’t seem to — can a person be allergic to Impressing?”

  “Allergic?”

  Fiona’s face worked through a range of emotions as she groped for the words. “I just seem so scattered, so lost. I never thought I couldn’t do this.” Fearfully she turned to her sleeping dragon and back again to Tannaz to whisper, “She can’t hear me, can she?”

  Tannaz eyed the sleeping dragonet carefully before answering. “No, she’s fast asleep,” she said. “But you have to watch your thoughts — they can disturb your dragon even when she’s sleeping.”

  Fiona’s eyes widened fearfully. “Now?”

  “No,” Tannaz assured her. “She’d be twitching.”

  Fiona heaved a sigh of relief but she persisted with her question, asking in a whisper, “So, could I be allergic?”

  “I’ve never heard of such of thing,” Tannaz told her. “And I don’t think so in your case.” She paused for a moment before confiding to Fiona, “You’re not alone. All the weyrlings, even those from the last hatching, are behaving oddly.”

  “They are?” Fiona repeated. Tannaz saw the way the girl’s whole body seemed to shift as she absorbed the news. “The ones from the Turn before, too?”

  “Yes,” Tannaz assured her.

  “Does anyone know why?” Fiona asked after a moment. Tannaz shook her head. Fiona looked down to the ground thoughtfully for a moment, then looked up again, asking, “Is anyone else acting this way?”

  “That’s an excellent question,” Tannaz told her. Out of curiosity, she asked, “How would you find out?”

  Fiona pursed her lips thoughtfully. “Well, if this were back at Fort Hold , I’d ask our healer if anyone had complained about feeling poorly.”

  Tannaz nodded in agreement, then shook her head. “But dragonriders aren’t holders.”

  “They might not want to admit to feeling poorly,” K’lior agreed that evening when Tannaz discussed her findings with the Weyrleaders.

  “Hah!” Cisca snorted. “Getting you to admit to a head cold took — ”

  K’lior silenced her with a warning look.

  “No rider wants to be grounded,” J’marin growled. “Even that silly D’lanor.”

  K’lior gave the Weyrlingmaster a questioning look.

  “That’s the one who couldn’t get his harness sorted . . . twice, ” J’marin explained.

  “Riders are a healthy lot,” T’mar remarked.

  Cisca snorted, looking squarely at K’lior. “Even healthy riders get sick sometimes.”

  “The older weyrlings have been this way for over a Turn,” T’mar pointed out, his tone suggesting that perhaps the issue wasn’t that important.

  “It’s affected their training,” J’marin objected. “And they are sicker than most.”

  “ ‘There’s always better,’ ” T’mar repeated the old saw with a sour look toward the Weyrlingmaster.

  “As you’ve said yourself,” K’lior reminded the wingleader in a lighter tone. He turned his attention back to Tannaz. “So what do you think of our newest Weyrwoman?”

  Tannaz pursed her lips in thought, then said tersely, “She’ll do.” K’lior raised an eyebrow questioningly. “Oh, she’s got her plate full with all the things bothering her — not the least that she’s little more than thirteen Turns to her name — ”

  “And we all know how difficult that can be,” Cisca inserted with a sympathetic wince.

  “That’s a harder age for girls than boys,” J’marin observed.

  “But it’s a good age to Impress, boy or girl,” T’mar said.

  K’lior waved the conversation aside. He had his answer, not that there was much he could do — the dragon had chosen her rider and that was that. “Did Kentai have a chance to talk with her?”

  “I brought her down to his quarters for lunch,” Tannaz said. She smiled, adding, “We fed her a full mug of hot, strong klah — that woke her right up. Anyway, Kentai told me later that her knowledge of Holder duties was well advanced, and she knows more about the Weyrs than most of our weyrlings.” She turned to Cisca, concluding, “I don’t think she’ll need much training from the harper.”

  “Good.” Cisca gave the other Weyrwoman a firm nod. “You and I will manage her then.”

  K’lior smiled at his mate, then turned back to the others. “In the meanwhile, I want us all to be alert for any similar signs in our riders.”

  “If they’re like D’lanor, you should have noticed already,” J’marin noted sourly.

  “So we should be looking carefully at those who are not like D’lanor,” K’lior observed affably, rising from the table and terminating the discussion.

  Afterward, in their quarters, Cisca turned to K’lior. “You know, everyone expected T’mar’s Zirenth to fly Melirth.”

  “Yes, I know,” K’lior replied, one brow quirked irritatedly, adding, as he snuggled in closer to her, “You choose an odd time to remember that.”

  Cisca shook her head, a gesture that was more felt than seen in the darkened room. “That was not a complaint,” she told him. “It’s just that before then, everyone was certain Zirenth would outfly Rineth, but not long before, T’mar started acting odd.”

  “And that’s not usual coming up to a mating flight that will determine who is the new Weyrleader?”

  “It just struck me as odd, K’lior,” Cisca replied with a touch of frost.

  “He’s an able wingleader and he’s never begrudged m
e my position,” K’lior told her. “I wouldn’t want to belabor him with unwarranted suspicions.”

  “Unwarranted!” Cisca repeated and, with a huff, rolled away from him.

  It took the Weyrleader a solid sevenday to regain the good graces of his Weyrwoman. They neither bickered nor fought openly, but K’lior knew that Cisca was irritated with him and worked hard to repair the rift.

  “It’s not all the weyrlings,” K’lior remarked to Cisca over dinner on the seventh day.

  Cisca raised an eyebrow to indicate her interest.

  “Some of them behave no different than any other weyrlings I’ve seen,” K’lior said.

  “And you’ve seen so many,” Cisca snapped.

  K’lior shrugged. He’d barely finished his weyrling training himself when his Rineth had flown Cisca’s Melirth and he’d become Weyrleader.

  “Even so,” K’lior persisted. “It’s not so much that I’ve seen so many weyrlings as that I knew some of these weyrlings particularly well — ”

  “You played with them not all that long ago,” Cisca interjected.

  “Precisely,” K’lior agreed with a slight smile. “And while D’lanor was always . . .” He waved a hand, inviting Cisca to supply a word.

  “Dim,” Cisca said. K’lior winced and Cisca tried again, “Slow.”

  “Challenged,” K’lior ventured. “But his heart was always in the right place.”

  “He follows orders, understands his place, and will make a great green rider,” Cisca said.

  “J’nos, on the other hand, is one of the best I’ve seen.”

  “Pilenth is well-formed,” Cisca admitted with an understandable touch of pride in her dragon’s offspring.

  K’lior nodded quickly in agreement. “Mind you, neither’s flown yet — ”

  “J’nos was holder born, wasn’t he?”

  “I don’t think it’s a question of origin,” K’lior said. “F’jian was Searched and he’s nearly as bad as D’lanor.”

  “On the whole . . . ?” Cisca prompted.

  “On the whole, T’jen is right,” K’lior said, his expression grim. “The same is true for the older weyrlings.”

  “And T’mar,” Cisca muttered.

  K’lior opened his mouth to protest but shut it again. After a moment he sighed, “Possibly.”

  “I knew you’d get there in the end,” Cisca told him. “So now what do we do?”

  “There’s no sign of this fire-lizard illness,” K’lior said.

  “Certainly it doesn’t sound like it would linger for over a Turn without more symptoms,” Cisca observed.

  “I can’t figure out what it could be, though.”

  “You will,” Cisca assured him, gesturing to his plate, “after you’ve had a chance to eat and sleep.”

  K’lior wisely chose not to argue.

  The relief Fiona felt at knowing she was not alone was quickly banished by her exhaustion and dulled mental state. The klah helped. She returned to her daily activities of feeding Talenth, oiling Talenth, praising Talenth, catching a nap when she could, and hurriedly eating the meals that were delivered directly to her quarters. Except for the constant muzziness, this would have been a time of unalloyed joy for two reasons: first, because she got to spend every waking moment with her marvelous, brilliant, and fabulous Talenth; and, second, because her time was for once completely her own. She could be slovenly, she could forgot to bathe for a whole day, she could be angry, she could curse, and she didn’t have to worry about being judged, frowned at, or silently derided because she was the Lord Holder’s daughter and the sole representative of Fort Hold’s future. Never mind that she was a girl and expected to marry the man who would be future Lord Holder, she was still required to “Set an example, Fiona!” “People look up to you!” “What would your father say if he saw you look that way?”

  It was really only here, in the freedom of Fort Weyr, as Talenth’s Weyrwoman, that Fiona would ever have realized how much her role as Fort’s Lady Holder — in waiting — was a position that stifled her, that restricted her, and that caused her to wake every morning with dread. She was free! She was a queen rider, and soon, when Talenth was old enough, she could go anywhere, do anything and —

  “Fiona!” a voice called from her doorway. “We’ve brought you some company.”

  Company? Fiona looked up from her perch between Talenth’s legs where she was lying, still covered in the oil and muck of Talenth’s morning’s ablutions. I’m not ready for company!

  “Fiona?” another voice, deeper, called. It was her father.

  A lifetime of training had her scampering to her feet before she had a moment to think.

  “My lord?”

  “Well, perhaps we should not have surprised her like that,” Cisca said later that evening as she and Tannaz met to discuss the day’s events.

  “She looked like a chicken cornered by a tunnel snake,” Tannaz agreed with a sigh.

  “She really didn’t handle it well,” Cisca continued. “Lord Bemin was clearly desperate to see her; I don’t know why she insisted on keeping him waiting while she bathed first.”

  “Why?” Tannaz retorted hotly. “Would you greet a Lord Holder dressed in your worst, oil-grimed, sleep-stained clothes with your hair and face all oily from your latest dragon-grooming?”

  “Sure,” Cisca responded with a toss of her shoulders. “Why not? It’s only a Lord Holder, after all.” She noticed Tannaz’s look and continued, “Oh, certainly, if I could, I’d prefer to be better dressed, but if the matter was sufficiently urgent, I’d have no problem greeting him at my worst.”

  Tannaz mulled Cisca’s response over for a moment before admitting, “I think you could greet him sky-clad and make him feel overdressed.”

  Cisca felt herself blushing but could only nod in agreement, grinning. “It would not be my preference but, yes, if I had to, then I would certainly work to ensure that he felt overdressed.”

  Tannaz chortled.

  “Still,” Cisca continued when their moment of mirth had passed, “I’m sorry it didn’t work out better. By bringing him here, I’d hoped to cheer up both Lord and rider — or at least raise Fiona from her lethargy.”

  “Well, you have to admit she was roused,” Tannaz said with a grin.

  “Right — with a screaming match that scared every dragon in the Weyr. Not exactly what I’d had in mind,” Cisca said, her eyes flashing.

  Tannas shrugged. “In the end, I think it worked out fine.” When Cisca shook her head in disbelief, Tannaz went on, “If you weren’t weyrbred, you’d understand. Weyrfolk have a different way of looking at things.”

  “I should hope.”

  “Bemin is a Lord Holder,” Tannaz explained. “He has spent his entire life expecting to be heard and instantly obeyed.”

  “So?” Cisca demanded. “He’s still a fair man.”

  “He’s a fair man, but it’s become ingrained in him that his word is law.”

  “Hmm,” Cisca murmured, looking at the second Weyrwoman thoughtfully.

  “Whereas here a Weyrleader’s authority only lasts until the senior queen’s next mating flight,” Tannaz continued. “So no one in the Weyr is used to as much authority as Lord Bemin wields in his Hold.” She paused. “And nowhere is he expected to wield that authority more than in his own Hall, over his own children.”

  Cisca nodded in comprehension, then frowned. “I still don’t see why this shouting match can be seen as a good thing.”

  “It was an excellent thing,” Tannaz corrected. “The worst alternative would have been for Fiona to respond with meek acquiescence to her father’s every request, fawning over him like a holder drudge. Instead, she lost her temper and told her Lord off in a manner that completely severed that relationship.”

  “But he’s still her father,” Cisca said.

  “He’s still her father,” Tannaz agreed. “And the wounds will take a while to heal. For both of them.”

  “I’m still not seeing the good in t
his,” Cisca told her.

  “When they meet again, it won’t be as Lord Holder and dutiful daughter,” Tannaz explained. “It will be as Lord Holder and tithe-bound Weyrwoman.” She paused, a look of admiration crossing her face. “I’m sure she didn’t plan it, but the break between them will make it much easier for the both of them to adjust to her new role — and it reaffirms in his mind his duty to the Weyr.”

  “How do you see that?”

  “Fiona asserted herself as a Weyrwoman,” Tannaz said, “and that assertion carries with it the weight of the whole Weyr. Without meaning to, Fiona reminded Lord Bemin that the safety of his Hold depends upon this Weyr and that he’s beholden to us.” An impish grin flashed on her face as she added, “I’ll bet our tithe from Fort will be much better this year than last.”

  Cisca looked at the other for a long moment before shaking her head sadly. “I don’t think I’ll ever be able to match you for deviousness.”

  “Ah, so aren’t you glad that I’m your junior Weyrwoman?”

  Cisca reached forward and hugged her. “I certainly am!”

  “Maybe it was a bad idea, sending the fire-lizards away,” T’mar said to K’lior at the end of the wingleaders’ meeting some twenty days after that tragic event. T’mar had waited until the other wingleaders had headed down to the Kitchen Caverns to join their wingriders for dinner.

  K’lior gave him an inquisitive look.

  T’mar went on. “There’s been no word of further outbreaks — ”

  “Perhaps because the fire-lizards are all gone,” K’lior suggested.

  “Perhaps it was a fluke,” T’mar retorted.

  K’lior nodded in understanding, then looked over and caught T’mar’s eyes. “Tell me, bronze rider, do you wish to stake your dragon’s life on a fluke?”

  T’mar’s face colored.

  K’lior made a calming gesture. “I don’t mean to anger you, T’mar,” he said. “I don’t like this any more than you.” Tension had been building in the Weyr; there had been two fights, one involving a dragonrider. K’lior was no fool; he knew that both were reflections of resentment and fear.